It was, however, set in the middle of a small regimental compound, surrounded by electric fences and surveillance systems and guards with guns. For someone to breach the security this far it had to be an…
… insider job.
Crouch saw a cyber-information analyst go down, a man he’d trained for eight years. He flinched as blood splashed across a screen. The person shooting was definitely not Shelly Cohen. It was a hired merc, ex-Army, clad in body armor and full-face helmet, but easily recognizable to seasoned men like Crouch because of the way he fired his weapon and conducted himself. Within seconds more men had appeared behind the first, squeezing off careful shots.
Warning shouts came through the comms. Yeah, thanks, Crouch thought. About as much fucking use as a four-cylinder Ferrari. Calmly, he took in his immediate surroundings, logging the young, capable and extremely loyal soldier, Zack Healey, ducking across from the left, and the heavy-boned, craggy-faced Rob Russo rumbling over from the right.
A good, hard line.
Crouch raised and sighted his gun. “Did you call it in?”
Healey replied, “I was already consulting with Armand Argento from Interpol, sir. He’s taken the reins.”
“Good man.” Crouch knew Argento was one of the best. “Now let’s thin the herd a bit.”
The three men opened fire, bullets striking true about the chests and heads of their attackers. Grunts and howls announced their agonies, but the ones with chest-shots only staggered and looked meaner.
“Bloody body armor,” Crouch declared.
“We have armor-piercing bullets behind the bars, sir,” Healey said, looking eager.
Crouch weighed up the options. He counted at least a dozen adversaries inside, and God only knew how many more waited outside. But up against that was the sanctity, the eminence and reputation of the Ninth Division. Crouch would not let it slip away so easily.
“Go. They hit us in our house, we’ll slice their goddamn heads off with paper cuts if we have to.”
Healey scrambled away on all fours. Bullets laced the air in his wake. Unfazed, the young soldier reached the far gun cabinets and punched in a quick four-digit code. Crouch watched anxiously, still tracking his enemies and staying low. Shots flew all around them. A mug full of coffee was shot to bits, sending its hot contents all over him. Great, now to add insult to injury he smelled of cheap, instant brown sludge.
The mercs advanced as a practiced unit. Healey slid a full box of ammo clear across the smooth wooden floor, passing through chair legs and under desks, right to Crouch’s feet.
Russo dived right in with him. “Kid’s got Olympic champion potential for box sliding at least.”
Crouch exchanged the standard rounds for the more powerful ones in seconds. Then he rose and fired a salvo. The mercs, arrogant behind their armor, were advancing hard, firing consistently. Crouch saw techs struggling for cover and professional British soldiers pinned down. Then his bullets made their mark, sending the oncoming team to their knees with shouts of fury. Blood leaked and pumped through their vests. Other men stood over them, shotguns now raised, but Russo took them out in the next few seconds and soon Healey was joining in from the far left. A stray shot passed by Russo’s face, making the man flinch, but Crouch figured his fellow soldier was so heavily boned up top that the slug would either bounce off or simply disintegrate into metal dust. His eyes flicked toward the yard monitors just above his head and locked onto the single one that hadn’t been shot to bits.
“Shag it off,” he said.
Russo looked at him. He’d heard the boss utter that phrase enough times to know what it meant: Get the hell out.
“Dozens of them,” Crouch said. “This crew is only the advance team.”
Rather than a daring raid Crouch now knew that this was an extermination. No warning bells had sounded. No alarms. Not even a shout. Somebody knew the position of every guard, every camera. Every computerized failsafe.
Somebody…
Crouch backed away. As much as he felt a chest-full of anger and determination, he still struggled with the absolute shock of betrayal. And not from just anyone — from the one person he had considered his best. Even worse was her status as a master assassin and her ability to operate right under his nose.
Maybe it was time to hang up the guns and don the slippers; time to concentrate on that other endearing love of his life — archaeological mystery.
But now he grabbed the box of ammo and rushed over to the far wall. Healey grinned at him, all boyish excitement. Damn, he needed a hard man or woman to curb that boy’s fire. It was either that or the daft kid would get himself killed.
Daft kid? Crouch thought. More like one of the youngest proven soldiers in my regiment. Was he really getting too old for this shit?
Russo dashed up behind. Crouch turned to gauge the positions of his other men and women. All were ready, prepared to fight. As he lifted his arm, preparing to move, there came an almighty crash as if the whole shed was falling in, collapsing on top of them. Crouch saw two grappling hook arms break through the shorter wall, then burst open as they sensed space or air, each one deploying four grappler arms and digging back into the wall of the shed.
“What in the name of astounding warfare is that?” Crouch whistled.
“Nothing good,” Russo said. “Not for us.”
A sudden jolt rocked them all off balance. The entire prefabricated shed shuddered, and Healey pointed out a fact that Crouch really didn’t like.
“You realize the floor is a part of this structure, don’t you? It’s bolted and welded to the base of the walls.”
“They just plonk these things down wherever we go,” Crouch said, “if they can.” Then he looked around. “Brace yourselves.”
Another stomach-churning lurch and one of the grapplers looked as if it was about to tear its way back through the wall, then the whole shed shifted. Desks grated and displaced their burdens. Computers, phones, files and drawers crashed to the floor. The shed stirred one more time, throwing Healey to the ground amidst the clutter. Then, suddenly, as Crouch reached down to help Healey up, the shed heaved and pitched, then faltered forward as if being dragged.
It picked up speed.
Crouch stumbled. The shed yawed. A grating noise like the slow opening of the world’s most rusted gates made him want to cover his ears. The entire structure was moving and there was nothing they could do about it.
At least, that was Crouch’s first fleeting impression. Once that ridiculous moment of weakness passed, he applied himself to the actual problem.
How to get out of the moving office.
He pictured the geography of the area around them. The shed had been put down on the outskirts of an industrial park, alongside electrical-goods outlets, builder’s merchants, conservatory retailers and blocks of brass-name-plate offices. Directly in front of them was a barely used airfield. Beyond that a steep grassy bank and the Thames.
Crouch reeled back as the shed shook again, threatening to come apart. In his heart of hearts he actually doubted that would be a good thing. Their enemies probably had many weapons readied for just that scenario. He flinched as a lampstand crashed down, narrowly missing his skull; watched as Russo palmed off a sliding, chest-high filing cabinet that might have crushed a lesser man; and looked to the weapons cabinet.